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Updated: May 13, 2025
In the journalists' lobby he encountered Garth, who had also been sending a message. "Oh, hallo," said Garth, "so you got out all right. So did Macdermott. I had the devil of a time. I tried one exit that didn't work; must have been bolted on the outside, I suppose. Anyhow, I hammered away and nothing happened.
Excited by his own utterances on the subject of Catholics, Fergus Macdermott suddenly remembered, while drinking his tea, what day it was. "My God," he remarked, profoundly moved, to Mr. Garth of the Morning Post, "it's the 8th of September." "What then?" inquired Mr.
MacDermott looked at him in astonishment. "Your father told me," she said, "that you couldn't ride and had never been on a horse in your life." "Did he say that? The poor dad! I suppose he was afraid I'd break my neck." "If you're suffering from nervous breakdown " "I am. Frightfully. That's why they sent me here." "Then you shouldn't hunt," said Mrs. MacDermott.
I've sunk ... Money ... much Money ... in your book ... I don't regret it ... not for a moment ... I believe in you, MacDermott ... strongly ... but it will be a long time before I recover any of that ... Money ... if I ever recover it. I'm sorry!..." John had come away from the publisher in a cheerless state of mind, and as he turned into the Strand, he collided with Hinde.
He thinks that she is much better than he can ever hope to be, and she thinks so, too; but if it were not for him, MacDermott, she wouldn't get thirty shillings a week in a penny gaff!" "They've asked me to write a play for them," John said. "Are you going to do it?" "I don't know. That play to-night was a very common sort of a piece. It's not the style of play I want to do!..."
"It takes a man years and years before he can earn a living out of books. Mr. Hinde told me that!..." "He seems to have told you a fearful lot," John sarcastically exclaimed. "I asked him a lot," Mrs. MacDermott replied. "If you ever get that book of yours printed at all, he says, you'll not get more nor thirty pounds for it, if you get that much.
It isn't every man can spare the time for learning or has the inclination for it, but we can all pay respect to them that has, whatever sort of an upbringing we've got!" It was then that John MacDermott learned to love his Uncle William almost as much as he loved his Uncle Matthew.
but neither Uncle William nor Uncle Matthew had had much to say for it. Uncle William said that his father would not have liked to think of his son writing a poem full of sentiments of that sort, and Uncle Matthew went upstairs to the attic and brought down, a copy of Romeo and Juliet and presented it to him. But Mrs. MacDermott was pleased in a queer way.
"You have to be queer and good to be one," he said, "and I'm not as good as all that!" "Well, mebbe, you'll get better as you get older," Mrs. MacDermott insisted. "I might get worse," he replied. "It would be a fearful thing to be a minister, and then find out you wanted to commit a sin!" "Ministers is like ourselves, John," Mrs. MacDermott said, "and I daresay Mr.
"You'd think the man was breaking his heart at the idea of not printing the story. He doesn't say anything about it, whether it's good or bad. He just thanks John for sending it to him and says he's sorry he can't accept it. If he's so sorry as all that, why the hell doesn't he print it?" "William!" said Mrs. MacDermott sharply. "This is Sunday!"
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